The Good in You is the Good in Me
by Tornainbow
Summary: Agatha and Sophie and everyday life in Gavaldon. Future fic, book 1 spoilers.


When Agatha walks through the streets, her step is heavy. There is a whisper of cloth brushing against metal, chainmail gleaming at the edge of her sleeves. Her smile does not come easy. Her words spill forth too sharply. Conflict and fairytales have been her grindstone. They have stripped away the damsel and left something else in its place.

Not that she ever cared for titles or labels. She does not like people—these villagers and their paltry judgements even less so.

But she is not mean-spirited, no, at least not to the children.

Eleven-year-old Gregory mans his father's fruit stand on the slow market days when his father has errands to run.

"A privilege and a responsibility, my boy," he'll say to his son before giving his hair a muss that brings a disgruntled frown to Gregory's face. "I'll be back soon."

Agatha is a hero to him. He is not put off by her dark garb or her short-cropped hair. He eyes the scabbard-sheathed sword at her waist in envy. He does not think in terms of boys and girls. He sees someone who wields her presence like a blade. She is fearsome and commanding in a way that nobody else in Gavaldon can match.

Except, well, the Witch—but that is not the point. The Witch does not often come into town. The Witch does not to choose to buy from his fruit stand. He prefers the Knight.

"Good morning, Gregory. You grow taller every time I see you," Agatha greets him. She ruffles his mop of shaggy brown curls and he never minds it much when _she _does it. "What do you have for sale today?"

Gregory's chest puffs in pride as he finds the freshest fruit.

At the tailor's shop, little Margaret must gather up and tidy the bolts of cloth that customers have chosen and put them back in their rightful place, their rightful display. She is no good at mending or sewing or wielding tiny things like needles.

To thirteen-year-old Margaret, Agatha is a conundrum. The woman will strut into her mother's store, and though her mother purses her lips and paints on a smile she helps her readily. Margaret can tell that Agatha does not care about fabrics or designs or textures, yet Agatha is there all the same. It is very vexing.

"Something pink. Also, a red, purple, and blue." Agatha will list all sorts of colors and Margaret's mother will shuffle about in a busy, flitting way until she has gathered up some of her most expensive cloths.

"Will these do?" Margaret's mother asks. "A nice crimson, plum, and cerulean?"

Agatha already looks exhausted and waves her hand to hurry along like every second has been a second too long. "Yes, yes, sure."

"How many yards?"

"Three?"

Margaret's mother tuts and looks at Agatha with disapproval. "Do you know what they're for?"

"Um, clothes, I suppose?"

It is the same tired conversation and it fascinates Margaret. Whatever the textiles might be for, they are not for Agatha because the imposing woman never wears anything that isn't dark and brooding in color. Deep forest greens, russet, and dark sapphires. Grey and grey and black, black, black.

Margaret looks down at the light blue dress her mother sewed her the week before. She wishes she could wear black too.

Then Agatha leaves town, heading back in the directions of the graveyard where she lives with the herb lady and the Witch.

To the elders of the village, she is still the herb witch's daughter.

To the children, she is the Knight in glinting armor.

She is the Champion of Shadows and the Graveyard Knight. She is the Protector of the Witch. They think she's rather nice.

She is something they never knew could exist.

Sophie does not come into town much. After a time, she had grown tired of all the peasantry. She is happy enough to let Agatha go about the myriad of mundane tasks that are necessary for everyday life. It is the events and the holidays that call to her. She dresses in her finest and sends a raven to the village to announce her impending arrival. The townspeople are ever so good about making her entrance grand.

They might fear her, but they don't show it.

Yes, they are _very _good at not showing it, and she is _very _good about not noticing how the children hide.

Sophie does not simply walk into town—she is beyond that, she would say. She is the unnaturally dark cloud on the horizon that comes in swift and vicious. When she lands her feet are already moving, heels clicking on the paved road because she would never deign to walk through dirt. Her hair is perfectly coiffed, a braided crown around blonde locks that flutter in the wind of her quick steps. Today her dress is shining silver, though a closer look might reveal the chaotic patterns of spidering webbing embroidered throughout.

Not that anyone looks too closely.

She doesn't give fair warning of her visit, and as soon as the townspeople spot her there is a flurry of activity. It puts her in a mood—a Good one—because she likes to see them scurry about, so ready dance to her tune.

There are the few that stop and gawk, never put at ease at the sudden way she appears in their midst. That puts in her a different mood, but Sophie reminds herself that she is Good. She knows she is, and because this is so she will not do evil things like turn the butcher into a flopping salmon on the ground. It's only that she finds it terribly irritating that he's staring at her with his mouth agog like a fish.

Besides, doing such a thing would undoubtedly have Agatha nagging at her until she put things back to right anyway so Sophie doesn't waste her time or her magic.

Instead, she sashays past the butcher's—such a bloody business—and into Taylor's Drapers. She hears a high-pitched squeak before spotting a young girl in a periwinkle dress dashing into the store's backroom. Meredith Taylor comes sweeping out a moment later with a bright smile plastered on her face.

"Sophie! Oh, it's so good to see you," Meredith says, grabbing Sophie hands in familiar greeting. "You're my best customer, you know."

"You say that every time." Sophie extracts her hands none too gently. She doesn't like the common folk touching her so freely.

"Only because it's true!" Meredith giggles in reply, as she always does. She clasps her hands in front of her. "What can I get for you today?"

"Agatha forgot to pick-up one of the fabrics I asked of her. No matter. I want it today while she's off hunting down that ghastly beast in the forest. Find me a light coral, would you? We need new drapes and I want them up before she gets back and causes a fuss about the color."

Meredith nods throughout. "Of course! I also have a new set of summer brocades that have just arrived from the city. All the rage there, I hear."

Sophie pins her with her calculating green eyes. "Is that so? Bring them to me."

Meredith has a light sheen of nervous sweat the entire time, but it's worth it when Sophie walks out with a dozen different fabrics when she came in for only one. It's only then that her daughter finally comes back out to gather up all the bolts of cloth that have been scattered about in Sophie's wake.

When Sophie is outside, she conjures a shadehound to escort her purchase back to the house. As the creature takes off down the street toward the graveyard, pulling a sled of shadows filled with colorful cloth, she catches sight of Keith Ferguson's boy—George?—staring at her in awe, or perhaps terror but she always prefers to believe it's only the former. He's holding a wooden sword limply at his side.

A streak of mischief slides through Sophie's veins. She lifts her hand and shifts her fingers against her palm, red sparks flying like flint from her fingertips. "Magic is fascinating, isn't it? But you shouldn't stare. It's rude. Didn't you know that, boy?"

The sparks jump from her hand to the ground and they snap and pop and hop like insects toward him. The young boy with his shaggy brown curls pales at the sight but he cannot move. He shuts his eyes and he is trembling as the sparks land in his hair and he can feel them like fleas—

"Sophie, play nice."

The movement in Gregory's hair disappears and he opens his eyes and the Knight is there, standing between him and the Witch. He can see the end of their forefingers glowing golden, fading slowly back to normal. He breathes a sigh of relief.

Sophie suddenly has an ever so innocent look about her. "What? His hair was atrocious. He looks a bit like Tedros now, don't you think?"

Gregory reaches up and touches his hair. It feels rather soft and well placed now instead of the mess it usually is. He even thinks there might be a smooth part down the middle.

Agatha huffs. "That again? I thought we were past that. I chose you."

"Hmm, so you have. Walk me home, will you?" Sophie says even as she turns and starts walking away.

Agatha rolls her eyes and turns to Gregory, gracing him with a kind smile. "She acts like we don't live together," she says and he doesn't really get what that means, but he does like the way she gives his hair that familiar ruffle, making a muss of it before catching up with Sophie.

"I leave you alone for a moment and find you terrorizing small children," Agatha says. "Not a very good thing of you." Despite her rebuke she lifts her arm out in invitation.

Sophie clicks her tongue but takes Agatha's proffered arm, pulling them closer. "Please, we both know you're the only thing that keeps me Good."

"I'd like to think that you have it in you."

"So you say. Did you bring the horse or do you plan on carrying me? I'm not walking through mud in these shoes."

They continue speaking, but they're too far for Gregory to hear the rest of the conversation. When he walks home he can't help but wonder at them.

They are something he never knew could exist.

**End**


End file.
